


In Love I've Always Been a Mercenary

by MissNaya



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), DCU
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fighting Kink, Identity Issues, M/M, Masochism, No Safeword, Not really sure how to tag that, Painful Sex, Past Torture, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, fighting-to-fucking, for a little while anyway, kind of, rape roleplay???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: When Jason's memories get to be too much for him, he tracks down an old associate. He can always count on Slade.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is yet another tumblr request fic! it's a little longer than previous requests, mainly because I have a lot of feelings about Arkhamverse. just love how Jason [clenches fist] HAS A TERRIBLE LIFE AND NEEDS HELP HE WON'T GET HMMMM YEAH
> 
> want to request something? shoot me an [ask!](http://dicktofen.tumblr.com/)

Sometimes, the cacophony of sounds in Jason's head don't stay put in the background. He hears his own screams first: his voice, weak and broken, begging for salvation. He hears laughter, the _click-hiss_ of a blowtorch, the clanging of a crowbar against metal.

When he hears Bruce's voice, saying “I can help you” over and over like a broken record, he knows it's time to go seek out an old “friend.”

The best thing about fights with Slade is that they always take up all of your brainpower. There's no time to think about anything but staying alive. And, while he's not sure if Slade would actually kill him if given the chance, he sure fights like he would. It's all Jason can do to dodge and block his blows; returning them is another matter entirely.

Call him stupid, but he tries anyway. He just needs to do _something,_ hit something, kick and scream and thrash and growl, and even if it lands him flat on his back, at least it lets him feel something other than pent-up frustration and regret.

The brunt of their fight feels like it lasts for hours, but Jason knows that realistically, it's only been a few minutes. That's all it takes for Slade to get him pinned to the concrete, hood half-shattered and showing his face through the flickering red display.

“Now,” Slade says, when Jason finally stops growling at him, “do you wanna tell me what this is about? Not that I mind the greeting.”

“Shut up,” Jason says. His chest is heaving. He doesn't want to have to think about _why_ he's here, he just wants to act. He twists and writhes under Slade, but his grip is strong, and Jason's guns have already been punted off to fuck-knows-where. “Let go!”

“Guess that's a no,” Slade says with a sigh in his voice. “As usual.”

He releases Jason's left arm to yank the broken helmet off and toss it away. Jason bares his teeth, face on full display, from his wild blue eyes to the scar that fills his gut with shame. He claws at Slade's arm, but it does little good; all it earns him in the end is a twisted wrist.

“Why don't you just say what you want for once?” Slade asks him.

Jason growls. “I did tell you. Let me _go!_ ”

He thinks Slade lets him get one leg free on purpose, but he won't look that gift horse in the mouth. He knees Slade in the stomach with enough force to make him back off. Then they're at it again, Jason jumping on him with all the fury of a wild animal. He manages to yank Slade's mask off, scratching long lines into his cheek in the process. He gets a black eye in return. They roll around on the ground, more a street brawl now than a battle between two trained fighters.

They've done this routine often enough for Slade to know the score. Right when Jason's anger starts to wane, Slade practically rips his pants open, trying to force them down. Jason fights back every step of the way, but he smashes their lips together at the same time, biting more than kissing. Finally, Slade gives up and just shoves his hand down Jason's pants, pawing at his hardening length with one large, callused hand.

Jason wonders when Slade managed to take his gloves off, but only for half a second. The rough treatment sends lava pooling in his gut, and he hisses, taking Slade's lip between his teeth. Slade's free hand yanks him back by the hair, and he allows his tongue to slip in, wet and forceful.

That's the other thing about Slade. Fucking him is just as intense as fighting him. He isn't one to tiptoe around the point, or to bother with unnecessary foreplay and platitudes. Jason thinks that this is just another way he's fucked up, the way he craves this sort of aggressive, insensitive sex. But if it can get him out of his mind for a while, that's just fine.

Slade fucks his mouth with his tongue, and it's distracting enough that Jason loses his grip on his pants. Slade takes that opportunity to yank them down as far as he can, which happens to be around his knees. It's claustrophobic; he thinks of being tied to a chair in Arkham, filthy and shaking and sobbing. But then Slade jerks his cock again, and he owns that reaction, that arousal. He takes that fear and makes it into something that can get him off.

He's glad Slade isn't the type to ask questions. He could never explain his reactions out loud.

His shirt and jacket are still on. Slade never tries to take them off, not after the first time. Jason's scars are numerous and ugly, and not something he wants even a casual fuck to see. Instead, he just reaches into one of Jason's inside pockets to pull out the lube he knows will be there.

Jason gets bored of kissing. He pulls back, says “No,” but he doesn't mean it, and they both know it. At least, he thinks Slade knows it. Jason refused the idea of a safe word (when has anything in his life ever been safe?). He wants to believe Slade knows the difference between their play and when he _really_ means no, but he can't be sure, and for some reason, he likes it better that way.

Predictably, Slade doesn't listen, grabbing Jason's wrists and trying to force him onto his back. Jason knees, he kicks, he twists and yanks and thrashes, but he's weak, he's powerless, and Slade pins him back down.

“Kid,” he says, in that gruff, beleaguered voice of his. He has both Jason's wrist and the bottle of lube in one big hand, and uncaps it with his teeth. “You really piss me off sometimes with this, you know that?”

Jason spits in his face.

When the next blow hits him, it strikes him right across his branded cheek. Jason's breath catches in his throat, and he arches his back a bit, head lulled to the side to expose more of his neck. He thinks of being owned, being treated like property, and again, turns all that ugliness inside of himself into arousal. When Slade slides wet fingers against his hole, he doesn't do more than weakly jerk his leg in a move that can hardly be called a kick.

Slade's fingers are thick and unforgiving, and he starts off with two at a time, like always. Jason's beginning to wish he'd start with three. It still stings like a motherfucker, but it's a sting he's getting used to, and he doesn't know what to do with a sense of normalcy. So, to make it harder on himself, he bucks and kicks and claws at Slade's wrist. He feels nails scrape him on the inside, and makes a sound too light and trembling to be pained.

“You're still hard,” Slade says, and Jason squirms and sobs. “Oh, enough. I'm just giving you what you want.”

Slade adds a third finger, and Jason breathes, “Please, sir, fuck me, sir,” hating himself with every syllable.

Slade doesn't like “sir.” Jason can tell by the way he sighs. Jason doesn't even like it, but his wires are already beyond crossed, and he remembers the tail end of his confinement, when he'd finally given in. When he'd called Joker “sir” like the brainwashed little puppet he was. He wonders if Joker put something in him that craves being obedient, or if he was destined to turn out like this all along.

He's thinking too much.

As if on cue, Slade curves his fingers up and hits Jason's prostate, practically melting him into a puddle. The assault on that spot is rough, damn near bruising, but Jason takes it with glazed eyes and drool running down his face, lost in bliss. Precum leaks out of his tip and soaks the coarse hair at the base of his cock, and he's worried that he might come soon if Slade keeps this up.

But he doesn't. He withdraws his hand, undoing his own pants, then grabs Jason by his still-bound legs, pulling him close. Jason feels Slade's cock, warm and hard and huge, resting against his ass, and he's so focused on the sensation that he doesn't realize both of his hands are now free. He may as well be tied down, limp and willing as he is.

“Still with me?” Slade asks. Jason glares up at him and shakily flips him the bird, prompting a low whistle. “Pardon me for asking, princess. Won't make that mistake again.”

“You shouldn't have made it in the first— _place—_ ” Jason tries, but the wind is knocked out of him when Slade practically folds him in half. His legs, held in place by his pants, get hooked over one shoulder, while Slade lines the slick head of his cock up with Jason's hole. He presses it in ever-so-slightly, and Jason grabs for his hip, urging him forward. “In, in, fucking _do it—_ ”

“Brat,” Slade says, and shoves in with one rough thrust.

He can't get very far. Halfway, maybe. Jason's even tighter in this position, and just this much has him whimpering, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Slade works his cock out and in, out and in, trying to go deeper with every rock of his hips, but Jason's got him clamped like a vice.

“Work with me, here,” Slade says through gritted teeth.

Jason's head lulls to the side. “Ha-harder... old man... hah...”

“Relax,” Slade commands. He threads his fingers through Jason's bangs and gives them a quick, harsh tug. “Re _lax._ ”

Jason's whole lower body _throbs,_ providing Slade just enough give to slide the rest of the way in. The pain is intense, and his eyes begin to take on that glazed quality again. Luckily, Slade knows just what to say to keep his attention.

“Look, you want this. I can feel it. Think you're fooling anyone with those tears? Innocent little Robin, taken advantage of by some big, bad villain? Please.”

“N-not... who I am,” Jason insists, clawing weakly at the hand in his hair.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

Slade pulls out, and while Jason's still gasping for breath, he pulls him up on his knees. Jason steadies himself with his hands on Slade's shoulders, feeling in pain and determined all at once.

Sort of like how he felt when Slade caught him escaping from Arkham, he thinks.

“Prove it,” Slade says again, smoothing his palm up Jason's sweat-slick thigh. “Ride me. Take what I know you want.”

Jason doesn't feel like trying to wrestle his pants over his boots, so he turns and sits in Slade's lap with Slade's chest to his back. It's exhilarating, how Slade's able to hold him up by his hips like he weighs nothing and guide him back down onto his cock. The angle's still awkward, but he's far more relaxed now. Even though he can't exactly bounce himself properly, Slade takes care of that for him, lifting him up and down with ease. Jason sees stars.

His grunts turn to moans, and he sets his hands on Slade's wrists to keep himself upright. His cock is pink and slick and straining, but Jason doesn't touch himself. Slade's broad wrists, with rough skin and thick hair, feel wonderful under his palms, like anchors he can hold onto to keep himself here and awake and in the present.

Slade's voice helps, too. He can _feel_ it against the back of his neck, chapped lips whispering filthy things on his skin.

“No, you're not cute little Robin anymore, huh? Look at you squirm. When'd you learn to move like that, huh? You feel what you do to me?” He holds Jason down in his lap for an extra few seconds, and Jason twitches around his cock. “Feel how you get me off.”

“Fff-for me, not... you...” Jason groans, sweaty strands of hair falling over his eyes when Slade starts to move again. “Want this. _Fuck,_ yes, I want it, baby, fuck me good, fucking say my name, ungh...”

“Which one?” He must feel the force of Jason's sidelong glare, because he smirks against his neck. “Kidding. Red Hood, scourge of the underworld... Lucky break for me, having you like this, huh?”

Jason sucks on his lips and whines, tilting up his chin as if anyone's around that he needs to impress.

“Yeah... Gonna make me come. You're gonna make me come, I'm gonna _fucking_ come with your cock in my ass, huh? Say it again, fuck, _fuck..._ ”

“Mmn, Red Hood,” Slade says, kissing a hot path up his neck. “That's it, Red, that's it...”

“This is mine,” Jason says, clenching around Slade's dick. He turns his head to meet his lips in an open-mouthed kiss. “This is _mine_. Fucking fuck me, Slade, yes, yes, _yes...!_ ”

He comes apart then, throwing his head back to moan so loud that he swears he scares some birds off their perches. Slade's hands hold him steady when he comes, lets him know who's inside of him, keeps it deep and stops Jason from shaking too hard. Slade's the only one who can make him come without being jerked off, and he loves every second of it.

And then, when he's boneless and spent, Slade keeps moving his body, keeps thrusting into him, grunting into his ear. Slade only ever makes noise like that when he's close, himself. Jason's overstimulated, leaning back against Slade's chest like a rag doll, but he lets it happen, gasping and moaning all the while. When Slade finally fills him up, he lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

As usual, Slade reaches into Jason's other pocket for some tissues. As usual, he tries to wipe Jason up. And as usual, Jason protests, before _hmph_ ing and letting himself be taken care of. By the time he's mostly clean and tucked back into his pants, he's ready to go to sleep.

“Just leave me here,” he mutters with a wave of his hand when Slade tries to tug him to his feet. “'S not the worst place I ever slept in.”

“You're a trip, Jason Todd,” Slade says, picking him up bridal-style. “Stop yapping. I'll get us a room.”

Somehow, Jason's more indignant about his own name than about that “us” part. He's not sure what that says about him.

But he is sure Slade won't give him much chance to dwell on it, so he lets himself be carried off.

 


End file.
